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When someone says that a name, a word, or an idea is on the tip of their tongue, what they mean is that they have entered that strange space between memory and forgetting. They know precisely what they wish to say, can sense and feel the knowledge all through their body, but for some reason, they are left drawing a blank. To be asked what it means to be Southern is to be asked to enter that liminal space. We know instinctively what it means—or perhaps what it is not—and yet we sometimes struggle to parse out its boundaries. As Southerners, we recognize that we occupy deeply contested space, geographically and culturally. The things that make us Southern are sometimes the same things that make us not. We contend with dueling forces, an external gaze that would render us static, frozen in time, while we are also pulled by the ever-flowing, ever-evolving waves of time. We are our past, but we are also our future. To be Southern is to be all of these things.

But the story of the South is not just a story of a region. It is the story of a nation, of a people who came from many nations, who journeyed down different roads to arrive here, in this place, this time. We have gathered here in this special SEUSA issue some stories and works, from the many we received from Southerners living in the South and around the world, that speak to some of these experiences, our shared triumphs and traumas as Southerners.

These stories ask the question, “what does it mean to be Southern?” in a time and place when cultural markers like language, culinary distinctions, and art often travel beyond their borders to be claimed and renamed by the larger mainstream. These stories ask questions and answer them in ways that ignited our imaginations, pulled us into their storytelling, and made us forget sometimes that we were reading fictional works on the page. What they share in common is what Southerners share in common—an emphasis on history, music, food, language, and the land, always the land itself. After all, the land is what unites and divides us.

And if the South is a contested body of work, of historical and cultural contributions to America, then Mississippi is its memory, some might say its heart. All roads seem to lead there, and in Inda Lauryn’s “Venus Witch’s Ring,” the crossroads are just the beginning.

As Southerners we are often praised and maligned for our accents. We are teased and ridiculed for the language and sounds that come out of our mouths, and chastised for the food we put in them. Whether it is the Southern “drawl,” recognizable no matter what the ethnic or cultural background is, or the basic staples of our comfort food, we are derided and celebrated all at once.

It is with humor and grace that Eden Royce offers readers a tantalizing taste of South Carolinian Gullah Geechee culture and its delicious, magical cuisine in “Every Good-bye Ain’t Gone.”

Christopher Alonso’s heartbreaking “Strange Mercy” reminds us of the South’s strong and long geographical reach, and Troy L. Wiggins’s devastating “Dying Lessons” is a reminder that the past is not always simply past. Both stories examine the bonds of family—chosen family and biological families. And whether bonded by choice or by blood, part of what makes the South special is its approach to food, faith, and family. These cultural threads are intertwined. They are the ties that bind us. In these stories the families are united by their shared love and their shared trauma. How they choose to face the incomprehensible is what makes the storytelling both beautifully chilling and moving.

Every inch of land in our country has a hard history—places of theft and plunder, places of war and bloodshed. The specter of freedom, how it is defined and who might claim it, is a relentless haint that has haunted the South for centuries. We are constantly redefining what it means to be “free” and who gets to experience it. Malena Crawford’s “The People Who Sleep Beneath the Waves” takes us to the very depths of history, into the ocean itself, in a story that explores the Middle Passage and its mark on those who were witnesses. Christopher Caldwell’s “Hide Me in the Shadow of Your Wings” takes flight and goes beyond the Middle Passage to show us the struggle to make a life within the chains that was the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade. What he has to tell us about honoring your true self and finding a home in love, is a poignant reminder that the will to live and thrive is present in all people.

“The South got something to say,” Andre 3000 of OutKast said over two decades ago. It is a sentiment that still rings true. We hope you enjoy these stories, poems, and other non-fiction works, as they have much to tell. Together they are a tribute to the richness and depth of the Southeastern region, and a testament that this is a demographic that has much to contribute to the speculative fiction field.



Sheree Renée Thomas creates art inspired by myth and folklore, natural science and the genius culture of the Mississippi Delta. Nine Bar Blues: Stories from an Ancient Future (Third Man Books, May 26, 2020) is her first fiction collection. Two multigenre/hybrid fiction and poetry collections, Sleeping Under the Tree of Life, longlisted for the 2016 Otherwise Award and Shotgun Lullabies were published by Aqueduct Press. She edited the Dark Matter volumes (World Fantasy Award 2001, 2005) that first introduced W.E.B. Du Bois’s work as science fiction, and she was the first black author to be honored with the World Fantasy Award since its inception in 1975. Her work is widely anthologized and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and received honorable mention in the Year's Best volumes. A Cave Canem Fellow, her poems and essays have appeared in the New York Times and other publications. She serves as the Associate Editor of Obsidian: Literature & Arts in the African Diaspora (Illinois State University, Normal). She lives in Memphis, Tennessee. Find her on Instagram/Facebook @shereereneethomas and on Twitter @blackpotmojo.
Current Issue
16 May 2022

we are whispered into this new land, this old land, whispered anew
i tuck myselves under coffin nails. and then i am the sun like a nairobi fly, burning spine and skin.
The last deer in heaven flees, and Sestu pursues.
Wednesday: The Anthropocene Unconscious: Climate Catastrophe Culture by Mark Bould 
Friday: Spear by Nicola Griffith 
Issue 9 May 2022
Podcast: 9 May Poetry 
Issue 2 May 2022
By: Eric Wang
By: Sara S. Messenger
Podcast read by: Ciro Faienza
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By: Blaize Kelly Strothers
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Podcast read by: Ciro Faienza
Issue 11 Apr 2022
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Issue 21 Mar 2022
By: Devin Miller
Art by: Alex Pernau
Podcast read by: Courtney Floyd
Issue 14 Mar 2022
Strange Horizons
Issue 7 Mar 2022
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We would like stories that are joyous, horrific, hopeful, despondent, powerful and subtle. Write something that will take our breath away, make us yell and cry. Write unapologetically in your local patois and basilects in space; make references to local events and memes to your heart’s content. Write something that makes you laugh and cry. Indulge in all the hallmarks of your heritage that you find yourself yearning for in speculative literature, but know that we will not judge you based on your authenticity as a Southeast Asian. 
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